


To Thaw a Frozen Heart

by JasperMoore



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: 'Witchcraft', Arranged Marriage, Based on Disney's Beauty and the Beast, Beauty and the Beast, Fae Character, Loki as Belle, Loki-centric, M/M, Tony as Beast, but not completely compliant, not-quite-human Loki, set in an imaginary country somewhere in Europe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 12:43:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12276714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JasperMoore/pseuds/JasperMoore
Summary: A cursed prince.A runaway groom.A scheming father.A traitorous uncle.Add a dash of magic, a pinch of romance, stir vigorously and serve immediately. This, my friends, is one recipe for a fairytale.





	1. Prelude

Once, long ago, in a world not quite like our own, a young prince held court in a shining castle. Although he had nearly everything his heart desired, although he held the very power of creation at his fingertips, the prince was callous and cruel, selfish and vain. In his shining castle, the egotistical monument to his heritage, the prince played at kinghood, with his ever-watchful uncle at his shoulder.

But one winter’s night, an old, wandering woman came to the castle doorstep. 

_Please your grace_ , she begged, cloak drawn tightly around her frail shoulders. _I have nothing and no one, nothing but this rose. In return, can you spare a crust, and your hearth for one night?_

The prince in his pride turned the ugly hag away, words of theft and deceit whispered in his ears. 

_Be warned, young prince,_ cautioned the beggar. _A heartless soul grows cold, and true beauty lies below the surface._

When the prince once again dismissed her, her outward appearance melted away to reveal a beautiful, unearthly fae creature, with skin of sapphire blue and eyes of shining amethyst. Wings of light erupted behind her, and the prince fell back, and though he attempted to apologize it was too late, for she had seen no love in his heart.

As punishment, she turned the prince into a horrid, hideous beast, and laid a curse on his castle, and all who inhabited it. A single, silver rose was her parting gift. 

She said to the young prince, _If you can reverse this magic by the time the last petal falls, your spell will be broken. But I have little hope for you._

For how can the heartless learn to love?


	2. Overture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so obviously I'm a liar. Whoops. I don't have this fic finished, but it's only 7 chapters long, and I'm working on the 3rd now, and I'm really effing stressed so seeing the view number go up will be nice. Unbeta'ed, so there are definitely mistakes, but oh well. I'm not getting paid for this. 
> 
> There is some swearing here, but not enough to bring the rating up, I don't think. Let me know if you think otherwise and I'll adjust accordingly.

“In the event of my premature death, and if no son has yet to be produced, my title and holdings will transfer to _my_ closest living relative, as decided by a court of law.”

“Surely such an inheritance would be better bestowed upon your daughter’s husband.”

“I may be in debt, but I have yet to pay with my pride. My title will stay within the family it was first bequeathed to. If it passes directly to your son, and he dies before _he_ fathers a son with Sigyn, where does that leave my status? Who does it pass to? No, this is something I will not negotiate on.”

A hand is waved, the ground is given, and a pen scratches yet another term into the marriage contract. 

Loki sits stiffly beside his soon-to-be-betrothed, the pair of them a respectable distance apart upon his father’s office sofa. His fingers toy distractedly across the buttons of his shirt. Despite the summer heat, Odin insisted on the windows being closed. To prevent anyone from overhearing delicate negotiation, according to the town’s mayor. Heat, however, is apparently no excuse to not be dressed in his finest, so Loki is fairly certain he’s going to sweat out of his skin.

He never liked the summer.

Sigyn, however, bears the unbearable heat with much more grace and refinement. He supposes that comes with the territory of being an aristocrat’s daughter. He feels her eyes on him, though he won’t look. She seems so hopeful in the face of their orchestrated engagement, so painfully trusting that they’ll end up madly in love, with a whole gaggle of children to carry on their name while they retire peacefully to the country.

The thought makes Loki sick to his stomach. 

Not that he has anything against Sigyn. She seems lovely. Nor does he take issue with the path marriage would likely take him down. No, his problem is a bit more specific.

Namely the _wife_ part. 

Loki has known for many years that he isn’t exactly _normal_. Ever at Thor’s heels, he had been privy to all of his brother’s girl-troubles, witnessed each infatuation, and hear second-hand of his dalliances. First he thought perhaps he would understand Thor’s preoccupation once he himself grew older. It wasn’t until he found himself gazing with longing eyes at the baker’s son that he realized something wasn’t quite right. He wasn’t ashamed, exactly, but he knew life would be so much the harder, should he ever voice his preference aloud. 

And then, of course, there’s the magic. The thrilling bite of frost at his fingertips when he calls for it. Witchcraft, according to his father. A hanging crime. Best hidden away.

He swallows thickly, eyes flicking to the clock. They’ve been sitting there for hours already. The marriage is a farce. A bargain to refill the count’s empty coffers, a boost to elevate Odin’s status. The father of a count is no one to scoff at. It’s a shame, Loki thinks, that his father couldn’t be satisfied being the father of a baron. Lady Jane’s father has wasted no time in passing on his title to Thor and absconding to his country estate, with Jane still months away from giving birth. 

But no. A barony wasn’t enough. Odin needed a county in the family as well. His black-sheep son would be much more useful in a forced marriage of nobility than off squandering his life as an author, or a teacher.

“It’s all very tedious, isn’t it?” Sigyn whispers, leaning towards him. Loki swallows again, throat clicking.

“Yes, I suppose it is.” 

“I feel like a china doll. Like a decoration.” 

Her soft laughter is pretty enough. Sigyn herself is lovely. Golden hair to rival Thor’s, fingers that aren’t dainty, but strong. She probably has ways to occupy her time other than sitting around in vapid contentment. Embroidery? No. Well, maybe, but it seems too gentle a task to roughen a noble lady’s hands. Hunting, perhaps? Not typically a woman’s sport, but not inconceivable. 

He’ll have plenty of time to learn her interests in the coming engagement period. Not to mention… the marriage. 

Ach.

“We’re chess pieces,” he breathes back. “Pawns to further our fathers’ ambitions.”

He dares a glance. She’s watching him with those brown, brown eyes of hers. Loki likes brown eyes, he can admit. He folds his hands in his lap. Her lips are tilted up in a shy half-smile. Today is the first day they’ve actually been face-to-face. The engagement period typical of these arranged marriages is intended to give each of them a chance to say ‘no, I don’t think this match will work’, but Loki sincerely doubts either of them will be given that sort of control over the situation.

“I hope, though, that we will make the best of the situation.”

Such blind faith. Loki sighs. 

They’re set free shortly before sundown. Sigyn invites him to her family home, an hours ride outside Asgard, for the sake of learning more about each other. Chaperoned, of course. It would be unacceptable for either of them to take liberties with the other with their wedding day still some months off. 

Loki accepts, assuring her he will arrive for lunch the following day. 

The following weeks are… not unpleasant, exactly, but distinctly uncomfortable. Loki must pretend that he’s interested. That the subtle swell of breasts within her laced corset are tantalizing, but that he resists lascivious comments, because he is a gentleman. That he will be proud, to have her by his side. To see her grow with child. 

Even worse, that he is eager to _create_ that child with her.

It all makes him vaguely nauseous. Is this even how a man captivated by the female form would behave? Or is he overcompensating for something in which he has no experience?

Their frequent meetings, chaperoned by Margaret, her tutor, are fairly dull. Oh, you look _lovely_ this morning, Lady Ohr. Oh why _thank_ you, Mister Odinson. That cravat truly brings out your eyes, Mister Odinson. What high praise, Lady Ohr. I treasure your words.

And that’s something he’ll have to give up, isn’t it? The passing of names from father to son. The noble houses each have one surname name they pass down, from generation to generation, from patriarch to heir. Common men like Odin and his sons bear names referring to their father. Loki supposes he won’t miss his much. A lifetime of having to lend an ear to his father bitching about how much of a faithless bitch his mother was isn’t exactly endearing.

Loki Ohr. That will be… different.

The days pass both like sand through a sieve and honey through a pinhole. They crawl and sprint forwards, inexorably approaching the wedding date, and drawing out this unbearable courtship.

And then the day comes when his witchcraft is exposed.

He awaits Sigyn in her favored garden. An unexpected delay keeps her, he has been told. Loki sits on a stone bench, idly fingering sculpted privet leaves. He looks to the entrance of the garden, rubbing his thumb into the palm of his hand. A late summer’s breeze tugs gently at the climbing flowers around the garden’s arched entryway. Surely a little mischief wouldn’t go amiss. After all, it’s not like he’s hurting anyone. It’s sweltering anyways. The ice will melt quickly.

He takes a leaf between his fingers, and from the touch spirals delicate, fractal lacework, glimmering silver in the sunlight. He frosts the leaf, then another, then another, until a patchwork of glistening, melting silver spreads across. His lips quirk up. He knows the magic is forbidden, but he never can resist using it. Thor adored his tricks, before he moved away to live in his brand-new barony. Especially little things, like icing the carriage wheels still to avoid church on the colder days. Frosting the walkway beneath their snide, sneering tutor’s feet so the pompous man fell flat on his back. Painting pictures on their bedroom windows. He turns his shoulder to the entryway, tracing his hand across the leaves. Icicles drip down, melting almost as soon as they form. 

“Witchcraft,” breathes a woman.

Breathes Sigyn. 

Loki reels away from the word. This, unfortunately, means falling sideways into the bushes. He scrambles to his feet, branches scratching at his scalp. His heart pounds frantically. Both Sigyn and her tutor Margaret infringe on his solitude. Margaret blocks the little opening between the hedges. Sigyn approaches, step after step, her hands clasped before her. 

“My lady. No, I- It was just-”

“What? Just a frost in July? I think not. Why are you looking away? Can you show me your craft?”

“I- What?” 

Of all possible responses… This? Loki is left reeling, blinking. Sigyn smiles at him, her teeth shining white. 

“My mother was a witch. Well, not quite like you. She dealt in herbs, charms, runes. It was the kind passed from mother to daughter, but I’m fairly certain you aren’t a daughter. You… Show me?”

He looks away, swallowing thickly. A touch to his chin turns him back to look at her. She bites her lip, eyes sparkling.

“Margaret will keep watch. Show me?”

Thus begins a… rather more pleasant courtship, actually. Loki learns of his betrothed’s mother, the witch. A good Christian woman, to all looking in, but Sigyn relates sitting in her mother’s private library- little more than a nook from which the men of the house were barred- and listening to her pray to someone Sigyn called the Mother Goddess.

Sigyn had never been given the chance to follow in her mother’s steps, something she reveals regretting deeply. Death crept in like a thief, stealing away the elder Lady Ohr by way of a snake’s bite. With no one to teach her as she grew, Sigyn turned instead to the religion of her father.

“I don’t dislike it,” she explains. “God is loving, and he has yet to betray me. I simply feel as though I’ve been robbed, you know? Of a life that might have been.”

Loki, in return for this trusting admission, displays his gifts. He crafts for her a fluttering dragonfly made of the finest frost, mends the snapped stem of a lily as she watches over his shoulder. He changes the color of his hair to the color of the sky, grinning to hear her delighted laughter. They discuss books, debate the merits of philosophy. He reads poetry to her, and she is enthralled. Margaret keeps watch, though not to ensure Loki behaves himself (which her certainly does, anyways). Instead she alerts them to the approach of gardeners- for the garden is their favorite retreat- and wards away gossips and wandering eyes.

“I am afraid,” Loki finally says come September. Their wedding fast approaches, and even as they lay on their backs- side by side in the swaying grass outside Asgard’s walls- the thought makes him sick. Sigyn props herself up on one arm and leans over him, her gentle hand smoothing the lines from his brow.

“Of what, my love?” 

Loki sighs, sits up. His legs cross, and he smooths the blanket beneath them. 

“I am afraid… I am afraid that I will not make you happy. I want you to be happy. You deserve this, Sigyn. But what if… what if we enter into this marriage, and you are miserable?”

“Then I shall take a lover and cuckold you in our bed,” the noblewoman teases, wrapping her arms around his neck. She nestles her head on his shoulder. Loki can hear the playful teasing in her response.

“Sigyn, I’m being serious. This isn’t fair to you. You should have a husband who can love you as a husband truly should. What if I can’t do that? How could you be happy with that?”

His betrothed doesn’t respond right away.

“You speak of your _preference_?” she says softly after what feels like an eternity. 

“Perhaps. What do you know of my preference?” 

Loki is wary. Somehow, Sigyn seems damnably-adept at sniffing out his secrets. He can only thank the heavens that not everyone is as perceptive as this young countess. He would have been hanged or imprisoned years ago, if they were. He glances over to where Margaret sits beneath a tree some distance away. She pays them no mind.

“You are not fond of women in the… usual way, yes? Oh, don’t worry about Margaret. Her husband had a male lover. I think she loved him too.”

“What happened to her husband?” Loki seizes on this new path to take. He seeks to avoid the question.

 

“He vanished with King Howard’s castle. Hasn’t been seen since. It’s a tragedy, truly. She still gets misty-eyed when she speaks of her men. Now-” She pinches Loki’s thigh, causing the man to start. “Don’t avoid the question. You may trust me.”

“Ah… no. No, not… I am not. I’m sorry, Sigyn. You deserve better.”

“Oh hush, silly man. Perhaps your preference lies elsewhere, but I think I will love you nonetheless. You are kind; you are clever; I know we will have marital duties, that we must have children, and I think you will be a gentle, guiding father. Will you beat me?”

“What? _No_ , never.”

“Will you force yourself upon me?”

“Never, Sigyn.”

“Will you abandon me?”

“Never.”

“Then I think I will be happy.” She presses a kiss to his cheek, carding her fingers through his hair. “Ours will be the love of souls, not bodies. I will be content. Do not be afraid, Loki. We are friends at the least, and I dare say that’s much better than most married couples end up as.”

“You have low standards, Sigyn,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face. Loki turns to face her, loose locks of hair falling around his face. The ribbon holding back his hair needs to be retied. “I know we must be married, but- Well, I know this isn’t the usual way, but should you ever find someone who can love you as I cannot, I will welcome them into our home.” 

“If candies and nuts, my love. Candies and nuts.”

He does come to love her, truly. Sigyn was correct in labeling theirs as a love of the soul. Sigyn swiftly becomes his dearest friend, with her keen eyes and sharp intuition, and he in turn strives to be the man she thinks he is. Thor claps him on the shoulder and congratulates him on making the best of this match, and Odin studies him from across the dinner table one evening 

“At least we know you’re good for _something_ the one-eyed patriarch grumbles. Loki bites his tongue. He’s endured these offhanded insults and petty nitpicks his whole life. It’s always best not to engage. 

But still, shouldn’t he be given the same respect his father demands? Shouldn’t be be on, if not equal, then similar footing now that he’s an adult, and engaged nonetheless?

He excuses himself after dinner, citing exhaustion from a day riding with Sigyn. As he originally thought, she has a fondness for hunting. The day had been spent thundering after a boar, and then a stag. The boar had escaped. The stag had not.

Loki retreats to his room, ice already in his palm before the door even closes behind him. He’s been working on a surprise, a private wedding gift for Sigyn. Each night, he crafts an assortment of roses from the ice he calls to his fingers. Glittering and clear, cloudy and faceted, etched, textured, with thorns, without. He comes closer to the perfect rose each night, but how can one choose between so many perfect flowers? Still, Loki knows Sigyn loves his magic, and he wants to see her smile.

The door creaks open, startling Loki from his contemplation. A bouquet of frosted, icy roses drifts through the air at his eye’s level, and he flinches, knowing already that he’s found trouble.

“I thought I told you never to use that- that- that _foul_ magic,” Odin snarls, storming into the room. One flick of the hand, and his father has the roses toppling to the ground, shattering on the floor. He fists his hand in his son’s shirt and drags him from the room. “You will practice your vows, and you will _cease this witchcraft_.”

Ah yes. The vows. Complicated things, involving wine and candles and rings. Almost, dare he say, ritualistic. Like _witchcraft_ , he thinks bitterly. 

Loki again holds his tongue, catching himself when Odin shoves him to stand before the patriarch’s desk. The mayor rests his hand on the dormant fireplace’s mantel, not yet finished with his lecture.

“You know the lengths I took to save you from a witch’s rope. Everything I did, I did for you. You’re mother was a heartless bitch, but did I cast you out when she abandoned you? Hmm? She was the devil’s bride, a witch, just like you.”

“Do not speak of my mother like this,” Loki spits, hands clenched into fists. Odin slaps him for his impertinence, just as he always does, but Loki will never not defend her. He remembers little of his mother, but he remembers her love.

“Do not _disrespect_ me, boy,” Odin hisses in response. “Now, your vows.”

Then do not disrespect me, or her, he thinks, but as ever the words remain in his throat.

Loki recites them, again and again, until each word comes with mechanical effortlessness. He is a figurehead, a mouthpiece, a puppet. The words are not his own, and yet they pour from his lips. He is dismissed from Odin’s sight with a sour taste in his mouth. In his room, the ice roses have melted to puddles. He toes the chilled water, and closes his eyes.

October creeps upon them, bringing with it an early chill. The prosperous farms of Asgard struggle to bring in the harvest. There is much whispering about an early frost, which would prove detrimental at the very least to the farmers. Odin will levy his taxes one way or the other, but Loki hopes the chill of winter holds off, at least until the grain is brought in and the corn is dried. 

His wedding day bears down upon him like a maddened horse in an alleyway. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and absolutely _no_ way to escape. He stands in the parlor, letting his father’s tailor fuss over the details of his suit. The coat must be black with silver trim and buttons, as per tradition. His gloves must also be black. As must his, well, his everything. Loki feels like he’s being fitted for a funeral, not a wedding. With his pale complexion, he feels certain that he’ll be mistaken for a walking corpse.

But it is tradition. Not just his, but his future father-in-law’s as well. Black for the wedding, marking it as the solemn occasion it must be. The celebration after will be more joyous, less stiff, but both groom and bride will remain in their monochromatic shades of black, white, and grey. Why, he wonders. If marriage is to be a union to celebrate, why must they be fitted for burial clothes?

“You’re certainly looking fine, brother,” Thor crows, clapping Loki on the shoulder. The younger brother stares silently into the mirror. 

“I should hope so. It wouldn’t do for my haggard appearance to sully Father’s plans.”

The words come out bitter, and Loki knows this.

“Have faith. Marriage can be a gift.” 

Loki knows, also, that Thor speaks of newly-pregnant Jane. His love. 

“Or a curse. Yours is a gift, but who can say mine will be the same?”

“Oh, don’t be like tha-” 

Thor devolves into a fit of coughing. Loki waves away the tailor in favor of helping his brother sit, and finding him a glass of water. Thor’s lungs have always been weak. Winter brings with it an awful hacking and wet coughing, and has since the golden son was a child. Each year is worse than the last, and Loki fears for the day blood flies from Thor’s mouth. So far they have been lucky, but the physicians consulted all agreed: Thor is lucky to have live past thirty. 

“As I was, ah, _saying_ ,” Thor continues, waving away the water. His voice is significantly strained. “Don’t let your sour thoughts cloud this occasion. Tonight we practice. Tomorrow, we celebrate.”

A rehearsal will take place that evening, for tomorrow they wed, and everything must go according to plan. The wedding procession will file into the intended cathedral. The priest will await them before the altar. Loki and Sigyn themselves will walk together, arm in arm, with Thor at Loki’s back and Margaret at Sigyn’s. They will practise their vows, affirm their intents, and leave until the wedding itself, mere hours later. Tomorrow as the sun sets. 

Loki steels himself for this, his heart flipping nervously in his chest. Sigyn’s arm rests lightly in his. They both wear formal attire, but their wedding clothes, Sigyn’s white dress and Loki’s black suit, are hidden away, waiting for the morrow. She is lovely in blue. It is pale, gathered gently to trail behind her. Pastel yellow lace flowers decorate the fabric. It’s the very same dress she wore to their marriage negotiation.

Odin and Sigyn’s father lead the procession, followed by the few guests who have been chosen to bear witness to this rehearsal. The crowd will be much larger for the wedding itself. 

“Now,” Thor murmurs, pressing lightly at Loki’s back. Ah, yes. Now is the time to move.

He tries to take a step, then another, but his feet remain planted. Loki is frozen, like the ice he loves to make. He swallows thickly. Down the aisle, Odin has him fixed in a murderous glare. He waves shortly with his hand, beckoning the couple forwards.

He can’t do this.

“Loki?” Sigyn whispers, laying her hand on his arm. There is much to be said in that one word. _Are you alright?_ he hears. _Can I help?_ he hears. _It’s alright_ he hears. _You can go_.

He disentangles his arm from hers, backing away from the chapel doors. Thor tries to catch him by the sleeve, tries to ask him what’s wrong, why he’s leaving. Loki rips his arm away, and runs.

It is a simple matter to flee. He leaps upon Sleipnir’s back, urging the black horse into a frantic gallop. In the confusion, it will take some time for Loki to be followed. He forgoes the road, guides his horse immediately into the grassy fields. Before him rises a forest. Beyond that forest, he knows, is a road to New York, the capital of this fair kingdom. The ring in his pocket will fetch a fair price, he knows as well. Enough to tide him over until he can find work. As a teacher, perhaps. An author.

Anything but a pawn to be bartered. As the wind picks up around him, Loki nudges his heels into Sleipnir’s sides, leaning forwards to face his fate.

Some hours later, once he’s deep in a dark, unfamiliar forest and well past midnight, Loki thinks that perhaps he should have put more thought into what he seeks to do.

For one thing, clothes other than this stiff formal wear would be lovely. Like a jacket, maybe. Or even better, a coat. Winter is still some ways off in terms of time, but the air is growing colder and colder. The feared cold snap.

Food would have been nice. Trading out this show saddle for something more suited to long-distance riding would have been better. 

It’s too late now, though. Adrenaline still courses through him, ensuring that he won’t really need to sleep for a while- there’s that too. A tent would be helpful- but eventually his lack of supplies is going to come back and bite him. 

If the frost doesn’t bite him first. Can he be frostbitten? Is that a thing that happens with witches like him? He certainly does feel cold.

Loki can see his breath in the moonlight, can feel the steam of Sleipnir’s panting as they trot along the beaten path. And yes, there’s a snowflake. Imagine, snow in October, just outside of Asgard. He hopes the farmers have harvested all they can. The first snowflake is followed by another, and another, until flurries dance through the air. They turn to meltwater the moment they hit the ground, but it’s only a matter of time before they stick.

Between his legs Sleipnir tenses, halting abruptly as white flakes alight on his black hide. His ears flick about, swiveling back and forth. The horse makes mincing steps, dancing sideways. An uneasy sound rumbles in his chest.

“Nothing to fear, love. It’s just a bit of snow. Won’t last the night, I’m sure. Just keep moving.” He tries to nudge Sleipnir forwards again. “We’ll be warmer that way.” 

It’s a wonderful plan, but Sleipnir has other ideas. He plants his hooves firmly and refuses to move, tossing his head and nearly yanking the reins from Loki’s hands.

“Hey, hey, shh. Shhhhh, there we go.” He strokes down Sleipnir’s trembling neck, frowning. He calls a flickering, sickly light to his hand. It isn’t strong, and it isn’t something he’s practised, but it’s enough to light the way. Loki settles back and takes a look. Ahead the road is clear, despite the falling snow. Behind the way is the same. And yet, as he turns to face forwards again, the cold, green-hued light catches, glints, reflects.

And the gleam back at him looks an awful lot like eyes.

Once he spots one pair, his own eyes can pick out another, and another. As the seconds trickle by shapes form in the shadowed moonlight. Shapes like wolves.

Loki tears himself from the frightened freeze, kicking his heels into Sleipnir’s sides.

“Go!”

The horse leaps forwards as though burned, and they’re off. Hooves thunder against dampened earth, and behind them Loki can hear the howl of a wolf- the _howls_. Damn, there’s a whole _pack_. And of course there is. Lones wolves don’t last long.

Sleipnir grunts and huffs as he bolts, and Loki regrets running him so hard earlier. The poor stallion has had no rest, and he’s not used to distance at these paces. The horse falters but presses on. Falling out of step means death. Loki spares a glance over his shoulders and sees moon-silvered pelts in pursuit. A horse at top speeds can outrun a wolf without issue, but Sleipnir isn’t at his top speeds. He’s _tired_.

The horse terrifies him with a scream, his rapid gait faltering as a wolf grows near enough to nip at his heels. The stallion puts on a burst of speed, and Loki leans sharply to the left, urging the beast from the beaten path. He leans low, nearly plastered to Sleipnir as the horse leaps over a fallen tree and thunders onward. They weave through the trees, panic allowing the stallion to put just enough distance between them and the wolves. Loki is well and truly lost now, but better lost than dead. And yes! There! In the distance, through the trees, Loki can make out the height of a stone wall. He prays the wall belongs to someone. An abandoned structure in disrepair won’t exactly save his skin.

As they bolt towards the wall, Loki guides Sleipnir at an angle. They need to find the gate. It’s their only hope. 

Hot relief courses through Loki when Sleipnir makes a break for an open portcullis.

“Help!” he shouts. Someone must be on guard duty. They’ll surely see the wolves and ready to close the gate. “Please!”

His face feels numb in the icy air as they finally breach the wall, and the welcome sound of chains rattling and a very definite thump signify safety. Sleipnir doesn’t slow down, despite the fading whines and barks of the foiled wolves. He keeps going, and going, and going. Loki clings to his horse blindly, unable to see much but a blanket of white. The flurries have become a blizzard. It’s all he can do not to vault over Sleipnir’s head when the stallion does come to an abrupt halt, hooves skidding in the dirt. 

He blinks the snowflakes from his eyelashes. In the darkness Loki can make out a massive, dark shape before him. 

Hopefully someone within will help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada! The overture appears. I don't have a set date for the completion of the next chapter yet, but rest assured this is going to be completed.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of seven chapters. The other six will be much longer than this, but they won't be up for a while. I'm intending to write this as a whole before posting the rest, because the chapters aren't even in length, so they'll take different amounts of time to write, and I like sticking to a publishing schedule. I just couldn't resist posting the prelude XD
> 
> I finally saw the live-action Beauty and the Beast, and while the auto-tune was unpleasant, I overall loved the movie. This, naturally, is inspired by the movie, though it only vaguely sticks to the same plot.
> 
> It's been rated general because there are as of yet no sensitive topics that I can think of. The rating may go up to teen at most, but I don't intend to touch on blatantly adult themes.


End file.
